


Shiver

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Language, Season/Series 02, Whump, locked in a freezer, of a fashion, probably set in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:00:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21560818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: Doesn't seem right, cuddling with a man who thinks you hate him. Wait, not cuddling. Huddling.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 24
Kudos: 92





	Shiver

**Author's Note:**

> Someone may have already written something similar, but in case not - I figured every fandom needs a 'locked in a freezer' fic!

Metal doors have an unforgiving finality when they shut; a clang that rings in the ears and shuts off hope. The sound of this one closing sends a shiver of fear through him.

Then a shiver of another type, his quickening breath manifesting in little puffs.

“Morse?” he asks, hoping for no response. Please, _please_ let Morse be on the other side of that door. Let him have finished the sweep and headed out, let him have forgotten Peter and closed the door himself, let-

“Yes?”

Peter closes his eyes. He hears Morse's steps, hears him come up to him and then the sharp gasp as he sees the closed door, the way he jogs over to it. It's probably hopeless. The door isn't meant to be opened from the inside; there's no handle, and that's why they were so careful to wedge it before they both came in here. Still, he strains his ears for the grind of metal on hinges, for Morse to figure it out. If ever there's a time for his big brain to come into play, it's now.

“ _Jakes,_ ” Morse growls, and he spins on the spot, opening his eyes. The floor is smooth and slippery, and he just catches himself against a shelf, the metal burning cold to the touch. He rips his hand back, and tucks it into his pocket. “Are you just going to stand there? Or help me find a way out?”

The former, probably. Because the latter is hopeless, and he can tell by Morse's eyes that he knows it too. The freezer has only one door, opened from the outside. They are both on the inside. And out there... well. Someone closed the door.

“Thursday will come,” Morse says, turning back and running his eyes over the seams of the door. “He'll notice we're not there.”

Notice you're not there, Peter thinks, as he watches Morse scramble on the shelves for anything he could use to escape. When it comes time for lunch and he's down a bagman to buy pints and feed sandwiches. 

He turns away, inspecting the freezer himself – but not for weapons, this time – he's come to the conclusion already that this isn't where the Lockwood gang keep their stash, although they must be getting close, to catch two coppers poking around and decide to freeze them to death instead of letting them walk away. No, this time – he's been cold before. He's cold now. He's going to get colder.

Cardboard, he thinks, pulling trays out and scattering cans of vegetables. Something to go on the floor. He finds sacking too, and that's a god send. He gathers it up. It smells musty, despite the deep freeze, and faintly of earth. He runs it through his fingers, letting the present fade away in the rough stitching. The smell is comforting; it's peeling potatoes, the fire in the kitchen and the promise of a meal to come. It's imprinted, deep, back where he thought memories barely existed but it turns out they'd lain dormant, mud gritty on hands he'd clapped with pleasure over his new toys. His mother tutting and rescuing the spuds, running his hands under water until they were pink again, and keeping him quiet with a carrot instead.

“Jakes!”

He swims upwards. Morse sounds indignant. Perhaps he's been calling for a while? Or it's just Morse, as usual. He shakes his head; it feels vaguely fuzzy, and he wonders if that's old buried memories resurfacing or the cold getting to him.

“ _Jakes-_ ”

“What?” he snaps. 

“What are you doing with that? Help me get this door open!”

Morse has found a metal spike; part of a shelf perhaps. He's wedged it in the seam of the door, and Peter can already tell it won't work. The spike is too slim, the door too heavy. It will bend or break. But Morse's hands are white where they clench at his sides, and Peter steps over to him, lends his strength to the task. He refrains from comment when the spike snaps and they stumble, when Morse reels away and stamps to the back of the freezer.

They stay like that for the next – he's not sure how long. His watch has stopped working, and he's measuring time in paces instead, burning calories he might need later, but generating heat. Morse is doing the same, he imagines, from what he hears from the other side of the shelves. 

God, he's tired. They'd both been up before the crack of dawn today, and it must be nearly noon now – not to mention there'd been no breakfast, no stop for coffee or biscuits. He thinks back, and realises last night's crisps at the pub, in lieu of a proper dinner, are probably the reason he's feeling a bit woozy now. He's not used to existing on air, not like Morse, still crashing around in the distance and intermittently hammering on the door.

He wants to sit down. Preferably in a hot bath, but at the moment...

He goes back to the cardboard and sacking. He sets out the cardboard methodically, overlapping it and forming a base maybe three feet wide and as far up the wall as he can make it stay. He slumps down on it, but no more cold seeps through than was already making it's way through the air itself, and he draws his knees up to his chin. A ball, that's what's important. Keep the middle bits warm. He holds his legs with one arm as he uses the other to pull the sacking up and over himself like a blanket, tucking his hands under his armpits. He ducks his head, the tip of his nose numb.

If only he'd had gloves with him. And a hat. Mind you, could have been worse – could have been summer outside, and they'd probably be goners already. At least they've got coats. 

“What are you doing?”

He looks up at Morse, the other man still vibrating with discontented energy. Wait, no. He's shivering. Violently. “Keeping warm.” He watches Morse for a second. Morse hasn't the first clue how to look after himself in the best of circumstances. He's standing there and he's not flipped his collar up to cover his neck. His bloody coat is still open, for Christ's sake. 

Shit. “Get in here.”

“What? No-”

“ _Morse_ ,” he spits. Time to be the sergeant. “That's an order.”

Morse really must be cold, because he lets his insubordination float away like leaves on an autumn stream, sinking to his knees on the cardboard and burrowing under the sacking. Peter attacks him best he can, flipping the collar, buttoning his coat, even riffling through his pockets because it would be just like Morse to be carrying gloves and have bloody  _forgotten_ about them – but no, seems he's not quite that stupid. When he's satisfied, he sits back a little, tucking them both in more securely.

Morse still looks pink, he assesses critically, casting his eyes over what little he can still see above the sacking – hair gone wild and curly in his frustration, eyes wide, mouth open and releasing little clouds. Not life endangering yet. White is a problem, but a nose gone pink is nothing to worry about.

He thinks.

“It's actually warmer in here.”

“I'm not an idiot Morse.”

“But – how did you...” he trails off, and Peter reckons a question half-asked doesn't deserve an answer, so stays silent. “Thanks.”

He'd shrug, but that runs the risk of dislodging their makeshift blankets. Instead he ducks his head back down, and doesn't mention it when Morse presses closer. It's about body heat, and he welcomes it, but there's also another kind of comfort there. Half-supressed remembrances float across his mind. Times when you hate to have another with you, but can't help but be glad for someone to hold on to. This could be it, after all. They could die here.

Morse shifts his head until they're pressed together top to bottom; he can feel stubble against his cheek, and fluffy hair tickling at his ear. Their breath mingles, and he thinks it's getting faster, which isn't a good sign. His knuckles ache and he realises he's had them clenched so tightly his nails are digging into his palms. He exhales, relaxes and loosens them. He shakes, muscles working overtime against the cold.

He's so tired. He just wants to stop.

“Jakes?”

“Mmm?”

“I'm sorry.”

“For what?” 

He can't remember, now, why he hates Morse so much. He knows he does, but the reasons... they've melted away. What was so important?

“For taking the bagman job.”

Was that it? Is that why he took one look at Morse and scoffed, and set to making him suffer? Morse is a prickly bastard, but so's Jackson. So's Parker. The world's not full of Strange's, and good thing too. Be a hell of a boring world, if they all went round being nice all the time.

He shrugs, and realises why that was a bad idea when the sacking slips. Morse catches it, pulls it up and tucks them in again. When he burrows back in, his hands find Peter's and fingers lace into his. They're like shards of ice, and he finds himself holding tightly, as if his own clumsy, blood-slowed hands can impart any warmth at all.

What was the question again? Oh. Bagman.

“S'okay.”

He should probably say sorry too. Doesn't seem right, cuddling with a man who thinks you hate him. Wait, not cuddling. Huddling. “'M sorry.”

Morse doesn't ask what for, just grips his hands and tilts his head. The nudge of a frozen nose on his cheek still manages to send a shiver through him.

Is that good? Is shivering good or bad? Does it stop? 

He blinks slowly.

This'd look bad, some deeply buried part of his brain slurs. Some part right in the middle, where the brazier is still burning, where coal is still frantically shovelled on a dying fire. If they were rescued now, their faces so close. If they freeze like this, two halves of one statue. He could kiss Morse so easily like this, right there, like -

Morse moves again, a shivering twitch that ends with his arms around Peter, and that's better, that's closer, but the movement brushes Peter's lips across his cheek – at least, he thinks it does. He can't feel it, lips gone numb, but he thinks he saw it. He didn't mean to.

Morse doesn't react, so it's probably okay. Maybe he's numb too. 

“We'll get out,” Morse whispers, and Peter nods. Or tries to. It's a lot of effort; he thinks usually it's not such hard work. But it's best that Morse thinks that. He's not a realist. Let him hope. “Hold on.”

“Morse...”

“Mmm?”

Peter closes his eyes.

–

The lights are too bright when he wakes, and he's cold, so cold. There are blankets heaped upon him and he's cold.

“Mmm-”

He's not sure what he's trying to say, but he thinks – Morse, wasn't he here? The freezer, God he's cold, except that's not right, he's not on cardboard, this is a bed, and – where's Morse? Wasn't Morse here?

“Morse...”

“Jakes.” A warm hand grips his own, and he squints.

“Morse?”

“He's over in the other bed.”

The voice is all wrong. Not Morse. Older. Familiar. The room starts to come into focus; a suit, a tie. Boss. Thursday, it's Thursday, sat in a visitor chair, hat on the bedside table. He's in hospital. “Sir, Morse-”

Thursday's not letting go of his left hand, and that would be weird except Peter doesn’t want him to. He feels like Thursday is the only source of warmth in the world, and he grips tighter when the older man shifts backwards, enough to have another warm palm land on top and then it's encased, God, that warmth. But where's Morse?

“Morse-”

“He's-”

Peter's not listening, and he struggles, trying to rise, but Thursday merely pushes him back before wrapping his hand up again. He feels weak, still groggy, but they need to get Morse out of there, he won't last. How long has Peter been out? They need to go back. They need to get him. “You need to get him,” he manages, imploring Thursday to act. This is _Morse._ Thursday is supposed to care about Morse. He can go, he can take away his heat, if he goes and gets Morse. “He won't last-”

Thursday's grips tightens again. “He's right there,” he says, jerking his head, and Peter follows his gaze. There's a bed next to his; a shared room, and Morse is in it. He releases a breath. They don't use hospital beds for dead people. They don't hook them up to fluids, or hang medical charts at their feet. “He's going to be fine,” Thursday continues mildly, and as his senses come back to him Peter realises how weirdly he's acted, how much it doesn't fit with DS Jakes. “You've got a touch of frostbite.”

“Mr Jakes,” a nurse bustles in, and Thursday drops his hand, standing up. “It's good to see you awake. You've been worrying your Dad here.” His eyes flick to Thursday, and Thursday looks at the floor. Right. Hospital visiting privileges.

“I'd best get back to work.” Thursday scoops up his hat as the nurse pokes and prods at Peter's extremities. “I'll see you both later... son.”

Peter can't help a smile, but the nurse takes it at face value. “You're lucky to have such a caring dad,” she chatters, as she massages and then rounds the bed to check his IV line. “My dad couldn't be dragged from the office for the world. Lived for it, he did. How anyone can live for stock control and deliveries I don't know.”

“How's Morse?” he asks.

“Your brother's doing fine. He should wake up soon.” The words prompts a yawn of his own, and she smiles at him kindly. “The tiredness is to be expected,” she says, tucking him in tighter. “And a bit of confusion.”

Maybe that can make up for his earlier questions, he thinks. Although it's going to take a stronger brain than his to work out how they figure Morse is his brother, when they've got two different last names. He'll have to ask Thursday.

“I'm cold.”

“I'll bring you some tea.”

The tea when it comes is soothing, but when it's gone he feels the chill again. He hugs the last of the warmth from the mug before abandoning it on the side. His eyes drift to Morse, and the slow up and down of his chest.

It worked before. They're still here.

He pulls back the covers, shivering violently at the swirl of cool air, and gets up. His feet are like those of a baby deer; uncooperative and clumsy as he stumbles across the short gap. He'd kept one hand clutched in his blankets and as he half-stands half-leans next to Morse's bed they trail behind him like a gown.

The pink is in his cheeks, now. Nose a normal colour. Hair still just as wild, but against blue sheets. He shivers.

He pulls back Morse's sheets and shoves him over, sliding himself into a space he can't really fit. Morse grumbles in his sleep, turns over, and that's better, like two spoons in a drawer, knees and elbows and ankles aligned. He heaves his blankets over the two of them, double the bedding and finally, finally, heat.

It starts to seep into him, loosening a deep ache he hadn't realised he had. It's going to take a while to reach his bones, but for now it's working wonders on his skin, his blood, his muscles loosening and relaxing for the first time in... he doesn't know how long it's been. He supposes it doesn't really matter.

He hooks an arm around Morse's waist, and presses his cold nose to the nape of his neck.

“Jakes?”

“Mmm.”

A hand grasps his, and for a second, he thinks he's going to be ripped away, kicked backwards. But cool fingers just interlace with his, and grip tightly. He sighs, and his breath is invisible and warm, fluttering the curls at Morse's ears until they tickle at his nose.

He can feel Morse breathing; slow and deep now, none of the frantic worried gasps of before. It weighs at his eyelids, dragging him under.

What's he fighting? Why? He closes his eyes, shifting closer and holding tight.

“...thanks, Peter.”

**Author's Note:**

> The bed sharing at the hospital is inspired by imaginationtherapy's Shameless series, specifically I Know I Can (Treat You Better) and you should go read it if you liked this, because it's also Jarse whump/comfort, but longer, plottier and generally better :P

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Shiver (Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21945841) by [lovely_narcissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovely_narcissa/pseuds/lovely_narcissa)




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